Stage Confidences Part 13

The child suffered long and terribly; both arms were broken, and in several places, also her little finger, a number of ribs, her collar-bone, and one leg, while cuts were simply not counted. During her fever-haunted nights she babbled j.a.panese for hours, with one single English name appearing and reappearing almost continually,--the name of Frank; and when she called that name it was like the cooing of a pigeon, and the down-drooping corners of her grave mouth curled upward into smiles. She spoke English surprisingly well, as the other members of the troupe only knew a very little broken English; and had she not placed the emphasis on the wrong syllable, her speech, would have been almost perfect.

Generally she was silent and sad and unsmiling, but grateful, pa.s.sionately grateful to her "nurse-lady," as she called Mrs. Holmes; yet when, that kind woman stooped to kiss her once, Oma.s.sa shrank from the caress with such repugnance as deeply to wound her, until the little j.a.panese had explained to her the national abhorrence of kissing, a.s.suring her over and over again that even "the j.a.pan ma'ma not kiss little wee baby she love."

Mrs. Holmes ceased to wonder at the girl's sadness when she found she was absolutely alone in the world: no father, no mother; no, no sister, no brother, "no what you call c-cousine?--no nothing, n.o.body have I got what belong to me," she said.

One morning, as her sick-room toilet was completed, Mrs. Holmes said lightly:--

"Oma.s.sa, who is Frank?" and then fairly jumped at the change in the ivory-tinted, expressionless face. Her long, narrow eyes glowed, a pink stain came on either cheek, she raised herself a little on her best arm, eagerly she cried, "You know him--oh, you know Frank?"

Regretfully Mrs. Holmes answered, "No, dear, I don't know him."

"But," persisted Oma.s.sa, "you know him, or how could you speak his name?"

"I learned the name from you, child, when you talked in the fever. I am very sorry I have caused you a disappointment. I am to blame for my curiosity--forgive me."

All the light faded from her face and very quietly she lay down upon her pillow, her lips close-pressed, her eyes closed; but she could not hide the s.h.i.+ning of the tears that squeezed between her short, thick lashes and clung to them. 'Twas long before his name was mentioned again; but one day something had been said of friends, when Oma.s.sa with intense pride had exclaimed:--"I have got my own self one friend--he--my friend Frank."

"What's his other name?" asked the nurse.

"Oh, he very poor, he got only one name."

"But, dear, he must have another name, he is Frank somebody or something."

"No! no!" persisted Oma.s.sa with gentle obstinacy, "he tell me always true, he very poor, good man--he got only one name, my Frank Sen."

"There," cried Mrs. Holmes, triumphantly, "you see he _has_ two names after all, you have just called him by them both--Frank Sen."

At which the invalid sent forth a tinkling laugh of amus.e.m.e.nt, crying: "Oh, that not one man's name, oh, no! That Sen that like your Mr.--Mrs.; you nurse-lady, you Holmes Sen. Ito--big j.a.pan fight man, he Ito Sen, you unnerstand me, nurse-lady?"

"Yes, child, I understand. Sen is a t.i.tle, a term of respect, and you like to show your friend Frank all the honour you can, so you call him Frank Sen."

And Oma.s.sa with unconscious slanginess gravely answered: "You right _on_ to it at first try. My boss" (her manager Kimoto) "find _me_ baby in j.a.pan, with very bad old man. He gamble all time. I not know why he have me, he not my old man, but he sell me for seven year to Kimoto, and Kimoto teach me jump, turn, twist, climb, and he send my money all to old man--_all_. We go Mexico--South America--many Islands--to German land, and long time here in this most big America--and the world so big--and then I so little j.a.pan baby--I no play--I no sing--I know nothing what to do--and just _one_ person in this big lonesome_ness_ make a kindness to me--my Frank Sen--just one man--just one woman in all world make goodness to me--my Frank Sen and my nurse-lady," and she stroked with reverent little fingers the white hand resting on the bed beside her.

"What was he like, your Frank?" asked the nurse.

"Oh, he one big large American man--he not laugh many times loud, but he laugh in he blue eye. He got brown mustache and he hair all short, thick, wavy--like puppy dog's back. He poor--he not perform in circus, oh, no! He work for put up tents, for wagon, for horses. He ver good man for fight too--he smash man that hurt horse--he smash man that kick dog or push me, j.a.pan baby. Oh, he best man in all the world" (the exquisite Madame b.u.t.terfly was not known yet, so Oma.s.sa was not quoting). "He tell me I shall not say some words, 'd.a.m.n' and 'h.e.l.l' and others more long, more bad, and he tell me all about that 'h.e.l.l' and where is--and how you get in for steal, for lie, for hurt things not so big as you--and how you can't get out again where there is cool place for change--and he smooth my hair and pat my shoulder, for he know j.a.pan people don't ever be kissed--and he call me one word I cannot know."

She shook her head regretfully. "He call me 'poor little wave'--why poor little wave--wave that mean water?" she sighed. "I can't know why Frank Sen call me that."

But quick-witted Mrs. Holmes guessed the word had been "waif"--poor little waif, and she began dimly to comprehend the big-hearted, rough tent-man, who had tried to guard this little foreign maid from the ignorance and evil about her.

"But," resumed Oma.s.sa, with perfect conviction, "Frank Sen meaned goodness for me when he called me 'wave'--I know _that_. What you think that big American man do for help me little j.a.pan baby--with no sense?

Well, I will tell you. When daylight circus-show over, he take me by hand and lead me to shady place between tents--he sit down--put me at he knee, and in what you call primer-book with he long brown finger he point out and make me know all those big fat letters--yes, he do _that_.

Other mens make of him fun--and he only laugh; but when they say he my father and say of me names, he lay down primer and fight. When he lay out the whole deck, he come back and wash he hands and show me some more letters. Oh, I very stupid j.a.pan baby; but at last I know _all_, and _then_ he harness some together and make d-o-g say dog, and n-o say no, and so it come that one day next week was going to be his fete-day,--what you call birsday,--and I make very big large secret."

She lifted herself excitedly in bed, her glowing eyes were on her nurse's face, her lips trembled, the "lantern" was alight and glowing radiantly.

"What you think I do for my Frank Sen's birsday? I have never one penny,--I cannot buy,--but I make one big great try. I go to circus-lady, that ride horse and jump hoops--she read like Frank Sen. I ask her show me some right letters. Oh, I work hard--for I am very stupid j.a.pan child; but when that day come, Frank Sen he lead me to shady place--he open primer--then," her whole face was quivering with fun at the recollection, "then I take he long finger off--I put _my_ finger and I slow spell--not cat--not dog--oh, _what_ you think?--I spell F-r-a-n-k--Frank! He look to me, and then he make a big jump--he catch me--toss me, high up in air, and he shout big glad shout, and then I say--'cause for your birsday.' He stop, he put me down, and he eyes come wet, and he take my hand and he say: 'Thank you, that's the only birsday gift I ever _re_ceived that was not from my mother. Spell it again for me,' he said; and then he was very proud and said, 'there was not any-other birsday gift like that in all the world!' What you think of _that_?

"Then the end to season of circus come--Frank Sen he kneel down by me--he very sad--he say, 'I have nothing to give--I am such a fool--and the green-cloth--oh, the curse of the green-cloth!' He took off my j.a.pan slippers and smiled at them and said, 'Poor little feet'; he stroked my hands and said, 'Poor little hands'; he lifted up my face and said, 'Poor little wave'; then he look up in air and he say, very troubled-like, 'A few home memories--some small knowledge, all I had, I have given her. To read a little is not much, but maybe it may help her some day, and I have nothing more to give!'

"And I feeling something grow very fast, here and here" (touching throat and breast), "and I say, '_You_ have nothing to give me? well'--and then I forget all about I am little j.a.pan girl, and I cry, 'Well, _I_ have something to give you, Frank Sen, and that is one kiss!' And I put my arms about he neck and make one big large kiss right on he kind lips."

Her chin sank upon her night-robed breast. After a moment she smiled deprecatingly at Mrs. Holmes and whispered: "You forgive me, other day?

You see I j.a.pan girl--and just once I give big American kiss to my friend, Frank Sen."

_CHAPTER XXI

STAGE FORFEITS AND THEIR HUMOUR_

It was during the rehearsals of "L'Article 47" that I enjoyed one single hearty laugh,--a statement that goes far to show my distressed state of mind,--for generally speaking that is an unusual day which does not bring along with its worry, work, and pain some bubble of healing laughter. It was a joke of Mr. Le Moyne's own special brand that found favour in my eyes and a place in my memory. Any one who has ever served under Mr. Daly can recall the astounding list of rules printed in fine type all over the backs of his contracts. The rules touching on _forfeits_ seemed endless: "For being late," "For a stage wait," "For lack of courtesy," "For gossiping," "For wounding a companion's feelings"--each had its separate forfeiture. "For addressing the manager on business outside of his office," I remember, was considered worth one dollar for a first offence and more for a second. Most of these rules ended with, "Or discharge at the option of the manager." But it was well known that the mortal offence was the breaking that rule whose very first forfeit was five dollars, "Or discharge at the option of," etc., that rule forbidding the giving to outsiders of any stage information whatever; touching the plays in rehearsal, their names, scenes, length, strength, or story; and to all these many rules on the backs of our contracts we a.s.sented and subscribed our amused or amazed selves.

When the new French play "L'Article 47" was announced, the t.i.tle aroused any amount of curiosity. A reporter after a matinee one day followed me up the avenue, trying hard to get me to explain its meaning; but I was anxious not to be "discharged at the option of the manager," and declined to explain. Many of the company received notes asking the meaning of the t.i.tle. At Mr. Le Moyne's house there boarded a walking interrogation-point of a woman. She wished to know what "L'Article 47"

meant; she would know. She tried Mr. Harkins; Mr. Harkins said he didn't know. She tossed her head and tried Mr. Crisp; Mr. Crisp patiently and elaborately explained just why he could not give any information. She implied that he did not know a lady when he saw one, and fell upon Mr.

Le Moyne, tired, hungry, suavely sardonic. "_He_ was," she a.s.sured him, "a gentleman of the old school. _He_ would know how to receive a lady's request and honour it." And Le Moyne rose to the occasion. A large benevolence sat upon his brow, as a.s.suring her that, though he ran the risk of discharge for her fair sake, yet should she have her will. He asked if she had ever seen a Daly contract. The bridling, simpering idiot replied, "She had seen several, and such numbers of silly rules she had never seen before, and--"

"That's it," blandly broke in Le Moyne, "there's the explanation of the whole thing--see? 'L' Article 47' is a five-act dramatization of the 47th rule of Daly's contract."

"Did you ever?" gasped the woman.

"No," said Le Moyne, reaching for bread, "I never did; but Daly's up to anything, and he'd discharge me like a shot if he should ever hear of this."

It was almost impossible to get Mr. Daly to laugh at an actor's joke; he was too generally at war with them, and he was too often the object of the jest. But he did laugh once at one of the solemn frauds perpetrated on me by this same Le Moyne.

On the one hundred and twenty-fifth performance of "Divorce" I had "stuck dead," as the saying is. Not a word could I find of my speech. I was cold--hot--cold again. I clutched Mrs. Gilbert's hand. I whispered frantically: "What is it? Oh! what is the word?" But horror on horror, in my fall I had dragged her down with me. She, too, was bewildered--lost. "I don't know," she murmured. There we were, all at sea. After an awful wait I walked over and asked Captain Lynde (Louis James) to come on, and the scene continued from that point. I was angry--shamed. I had never stuck in all my life before, not even in my little girl days. Mr. Daly was, of course, in front. He came rus.h.i.+ng back to inquire, to scold. Every one joked me about my probable five-dollar forfeit. Well, next night came, and at that exact line I did it again. Of course that was an expression of worn-out nerves; but it was humiliating in the extreme. Mr. Daly, it happened, was attending an opening elsewhere, and did not witness my second fall from grace. Then came Le Moyne to me--big and grave and kind, his plump face with the s.h.i.+ny spots on the cheek-bones fairly exuding sympathetic commiseration.

He led me aside, he lowered his voice, he addressed me gently:--

[Ill.u.s.tration: _W.J. Le Moyne_]

"You stuck again, didn't you, Clara? Too bad! too bad! and of course you apprehend trouble with Daly? I'm awfully sorry. Ten dollars is such a haul on one week's salary. But see here, I've got an idea that will help you out, if you care to listen to it."

I looked hard at him, but the wretch had a front of bra.s.s; his benevolence was touching. I said eagerly: "Yes, I do care indeed to listen. What is the idea?"

He beamed with affectionate interest, as he said impressively, "Well, now you know that a bad 'stick' generally costs five dollars in this theatre?"

"Yes," I groaned.

"And you stuck awfully last night?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then to-night you go and repeat the offence. But here is where I see hope for you. Daly is not here; he does not know yet what you have done.

Watch then for his coming. This play is so long he will be here before it's over. Go to his private office at once. Get ahead of every one else; do you understand? Approach him affably and frankly. Tell him yourself that you have unfortunately stuck again, and then offer him _the two 'sticks' for eight dollars_. If he's a gentleman and not a Jew, he'll accept your proposal."

Just what remarks I made to my sympathetic friend Le Moyne at the end of that speech I cannot now recall. If any one else can, I can only say I was not a church member then, and let it pa.s.s at that. But when I opened my envelope next salary day and saw my full week's earnings there, I went to Mr. Daly's office and told him of my two "sticks" and of Le Moyne's proposed offer, and for once he laughed at an actor's joke.